


Soak

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm has one job: bring wine to dinner at his mother's. Except things aren't ever that easy.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Sensory Overload.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly
Comments: 20
Kudos: 106
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Soak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atomrealm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atomrealm/gifts).



“Bring wine to dinner,” Ainsley had instructed.

He didn’t know how he was still on his feet. Well, he knew four cups of coffee had something to do with it, but it left him extra jittery, energy upon energy vibrating through his fingers. Four days into a no sleep bender, and he understood he should have cancelled. He didn’t want to explain why. So he buttoned up his coat and started the walk to the wine boutique.

 _COFFEE - COFFEE_ , yelled the café, trying to draw him in. _Asian_ , proclaimed another window, leaving him to wonder what kind. He smiled to street vendors doling cuts of shawarma and kebab. Wafts of food threatened his stomach.

What was his mother planning for dinner? In typical form, he didn't really want anything, yet would take mouthfuls of something to stop her from fussing. Soup was the default, yet she was excited over Ainsley’s increased airtime, so he expected she might go fancier. He doubted he could go above spooning soup.

He turned down the street to a flood pushing against the storefronts, a barricade channeling people into a music venue. Who was playing that so many people had streamed in? The wine boutique beckoned at the far end of the street, announcing limited arrival of Graci Etna Rosato in its ever-present white LED Christmas-lit window.

He needed to get through the people, around the cordoned queue, past the venue, under the construction tunnel, and down beyond a card shop, restaurant, and patisserie. He ventured in, brushing shoulders with patrons who spilled well past the intended waiting area. Foot fumbled over foot, elbows tapped into his ribs and side, hands clipped everywhere, breaths of stale beer reached through him. A human pinball bouncing toward an unreachable end.

Why didn’t he go around?

Jammed between people and plywood, he might as well have been under the concrete he was standing on. The clamor of construction, traffic, and bustle from the street couldn’t form its way into a rhythm he could tolerate, so it presented as technicolor noise whooshing and spiking in his ears. The lights in every storefront flashed into a blaze that crowded out the oxygen. Sweat slicked his palms. The distinct New York aroma of piss, decaying garbage, and blend of every cooking food rose to crowd his throat.

“Let me through,” a man shoved his shoulder, knocking by him, and Malcolm tipped over the barricade and into the street.

His spine thudded against the pavement, his wrists breaking the fall. A blaring car horn trying to move forward lit his skull and sprung him to standing, his whole body shaking. _Go home_ \- long strides took him down the street, right beside the cars - _get home_.

Racing from the street back to his door was a blur of footfalls on concrete, a scramble up the stairs to the loft. He grabbed his weighted blanket and bounded up to the bathroom, closing himself inside in darkness. He laid in the tub, constricted himself with folds of the blanket, and waited for silence, each breath echoing off the porcelain.

* * *

Ainsley knew Malcolm was home because his key was on the table inside the door, yet she didn’t see him anywhere in the dim light streaking through the windows as she looked from the kitchen to the living room, back across to the bedroom and bathroom. She turned the light on and headed upstairs, peeking down the hall for where he might be.

“Malcolm?” She knocked on the only closed door.

“Hmm?” The voice broke him from dreamy near slumber. “It’s open.”

In the sliver of light that came through the door, she could spot Malcolm’s head laying against the lip of the tub, hair sprawled, the rest of him under a blanket inside. She closed the door behind her and felt her way to sit on the floor next to him.

“When you missed dinner, Mom wanted to come looking for you, and I said I’d go instead,” she spoke softly, running her fingers through his hair.

“Thanks, Ains.”

“Can I get you something?” she asked, her fingers continuing in a soothing pattern among his strands.

“I should go to bed,” he admitted, so close to finally ending the streak of insomnia.

“But the tub’s too comfy,” she recalled days she’d sat beside Malcolm as he came down from panic, anxiety, the day just being too much. Bringing him water, yet she being the one to finish it. Doing her homework and talking to him, yet not getting responses in return.

“She mad?”

“She’s mom.” Her smile carried into her voice.

“Viña has Graci Etna Rosato.” The huge letters reappeared in his mind.

“That’s so last year,” she teased. “Maybe it’s good you didn’t come - Mom would’ve frowned at a rosé.”

His eyes rolled behind his lids. “She’ll drink anything.”

“Not without comment,” she reminded. Any aspect of an alcohol deemed sub-par was judged when it entered the house, its giver along with it.

“Help yourself to anything downstairs,” Malcolm offered.

“Nah, I’m good.” She rubbed her thumb against his scalp. “Gonna sit with you a little bit if that’s okay.”

“Thanks.”

In the silence, he thought of how he’d been in larger crowds for cases, how he never knew when his day would turn, how he always had Ains.

She tiptoed out when his breaths evened into sleep, leaving a glass of water and a note behind on the counter.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
